All That's Known
by TechnicolorNina
Summary: They're not normal, and neither is what they do. He knows that, so he explains why he does it anyway.


Something else new.

I usually hate notes like this - which is to say, self-defense notes, because I feel they're often the sign of a weak author refusing to take responsibility for laziness - but this once I'm going to make an exception and write one. Without throwing a pity party for myself, I'm going to come right out and say something here: There has been abuse in my family. This story is basically my answer to all the "oh, he was raped by his dad which is why he's emo but otherwise okay" bullshit that's out there. I won't say this is real, per se, but it's more real than some of that shit. So if you want to flame me? Take your flames somewhere else. It's not intended to be funny or cute. It just is.

On that note, the last time I posted this - I took it down for some cleanup - I had 120 hits and a single review. I understand if you don't want people tracking your reviews and going "WTF!" but guys, I have anonymous comments turned on. There's no reason you can't say something. 'Kay? Thanks. This was harder than hell to write - during some portions I was actually physically ill - and I'd appreciate knowing that someone actually read it.

Edited 8/19/08 due to the site messing up the first three paragraphs. Since I'm here and fixing stuff anyway, thanks to all the folk who have reviewed this. It's tough to write things that are personally so close, so it means a lot when people acknowledge the effort that went into this. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

**Title**: All That's Known  
**Author**: Nina/**TechnicolorNina**  
**Fandom**: Yu-Gi-Oh!  
**Pairing/Characters**: This story mentions **non-graphic Seto/Mokuba**  
**Word Count**: 1 550  
**Story Rating**: **M/R** for **mentions of pedophilia**, **incest**, and **language**  
**Story Summary**: Kaiba talks about why.  
**Spoilers**: Amazingly? I don't think there are any.  
**Warnings**: There is **incest** and **mentions of pedophilia, rape, and coercion** in this story.  
**Feedback**: Yes please.  
**Special Thanks/Dedications**: For **T.K. Yuy,** who helped me when I was ready to quit and held my virtual hand through the hard parts - in other words, all of it.

_

* * *

People think it's weird._

I know that. I know they whisper behind their hands when my back is turned, and that if they ever had any idea how close they are to right I'd be spending tomorrow night in a prison somewhere. I know because I know they don't know, they don't understand. They don't see things the way I do.

Unnatural? Okay, maybe. Probably, actually. I'll concede that point. Homosexuality may be a natural function of nature, but it's not the normal_ function of nature, the usual one, and I suppose that means some people would call it unnatural. By all means, if that's the way you feel about it, go ahead and call me that. I'm a faggot. I know it, you know it, we're even. Ask me if I care._

Sick? Not so much. If you think it's sick, you didn't grow up with the man who adopted me and then made me call him Daddy while he fucked me. Believe me, I know sick. And this isn't it.

But what they don't understand – what they don't get – is that this isn't that. You can't say they're the same thing. I've been involved in one and involved in the other, and I think I'd know. Because the difference is this: my adopted father did what he did because he was the kind of man who got off on hurting other people. He liked watching me cry. I showed him in the end, of course – I just quit crying altogether, and didn't that_ bust his balls – but that didn't change one damn thing about who he was underneath the Mr. High Society veneer he liked to put on in public._

I'm not doing it to hurt him. Jesus, would I ever? The entire reason I'm doing it is so nobody else_ hurts him, because if they did I might have to take care of it myself, and I know what I'm like when I'm not responsible for my own actions. Even the local police have to do _something_ when they find a dead body in the gutter._

If you're still wondering what I'm talking about, then either you're not paying attention or you're too stupid to handle life. That's okay; I'm used to it. People never pay attention to me unless they know who I am, and then they don't so much pay attention as grovel. And stupid people are everywhere. They're taking over the entire fucking planet. I mentioned this theory once in a paper for class, and the teacher told me he thought maybe I should give some leeway for people with an IQ below a hundred and seventy. I told him to get bent. I started out average just like everyone else. If I can do it, so can they.

You're not_ one of those stupid people, are you? If I tell you I'm eighteen years old and sleeping in the same bed with my little brother, you'll understand when I tell you it's because I still have nightmares about the bastard who adopted us threatening to beat him bloody if I didn't finish my trig homework in fifteen minutes. You'll understand that I do it because I don't want somebody else to come along and hurt him. He's been through enough, and he never hurt anybody. I won't say he deserves somebody to worship him, because worship is a strong word and even though he's a teenager he still hasn't learned how to put the cap back on the toothpaste when he's done and it's pretty hard to worship someone like that, but it's the closest word I can think of right now to the one I actually want. You know the kind of thing I mean; I've always been better at maths than words. Go ahead and laugh – I absolutely _defy_ you to do some of the bookkeeping I have to do every month and have your biggest error ever come to about half a euro on the exchange scale. When you can do that, you can laugh at me. Until then, I don't want to hear shit about my language skills._

I'm not fucking him. That's the one thing people can't seem to get through their thick skulls. The law says he's past the age of consent, and I know that as well as I know my own name, but I also know that I was just a little younger than him when the bastard decided I should be paying for my food and clothes and my brother's care, and I know that's too young. The Americans are a seriously fucked-up bunch, but I think they're a little closer to sane than we are when it comes to statutory consent. Seriously – who ever decided a kid who's still under curfew-age is old enough to be having sex?

So we sleep in the same bed, and sometimes we kiss – but that's as far as it's gone. Sometimes I think he'd take it farther if I'd let him. Sometimes I'm tempted to. So far I haven't. Things keep getting in the way. Some of them are sheer chance. Some of them I've put in the way myself. I'm protecting him, you see – and that means protecting him from me, too. I'm no angel. I'm not stupid enough to not know that. I'd rather cut my own throat than hurt him, but there are these microscopic things called hormones that like to play merry hell with logic, and I feel more comfortable with those little barriers. Those safeguards.

Because it's not just about rape. It's easy to say he'd be okay with it, he wouldn't care because he knows I love him and all he has to do is say "stop" and I would, saying no to him isn't something I've ever been good at, but that's just words. He's not old enough to understand, and that's more than words; that's a fact. 

"Nii-sama?"

Kaiba looked up from the computer. "Mmmm?"

"I'm going to bed now."

"All right. Don't forget you have to be up early tomorrow for exams."

"I won't."

"Will you come in before I fall asleep?"

"Probably." Definitely. It was a kissing-night, and they were rare. He enjoyed them. They were a way to accustom himself to the idea that it wouldn't hurt when the time came.

"Okay." Mokuba padded away, looking even shorter than usual with his brother's Transformers tee-shirt hanging down to his knees. Kaiba smiled. The smile faded as he looked back at the screen and began to type again.

_Nobody else would put in this kind of time and consider it a privilege to be allowed, believe me. Nobody else would bother learning how to stroke his hair or hug him just the way he likes. Nobody else would know what to say when he's been having nightmares again about hearing me scream in the middle of the night. And would anybody else bother to pay attention to what kind of mood he's in when those little fluctuations are so subtle they're almost impossible to notice if you don't know what you're looking for? Would anybody else pay attention to whether it's a kissing day or a holding day or a let's-go-climb-trees day? Is there a single other person out there who'd understand that he's a kid because he's young and his hormones haven't caught up with him yet and an adult at the same time because circumstances made him be?_

So we kiss and we touch and someday, when he's old enough to understand what kind of a commitment is going on, we might do more. Or we might not. It really depends on a lot of things. Most important is whether or not he wants to.

Because I have to protect him. I promised.

You understand, don't you?

Kaiba sighed and filled out the little boxes at the bottom. Mood – exhausted. Music – none. Filter – friends-only, and wasn't that a scream, because none of these people knew who he actually was and thought the blog belonged to an aspiring writer whose entries consisted of practice pieces. The only one who'd ever tried to track him had had no luck, not with the ISP scrambler Kaiba had gotten in Germany. There was no trail – paper or electronic – and he liked it that way. Every tiny identifying comment he'd made – their ages, a reference to his job – had been carefully deleted.

He clicked submit, logged into his email, and then cleared the cookies and browser history. A quick search showed no record of what he'd written remaining on his computer. Satisfied, he turned it off and closed the screen.

Mokuba was already curled in a ball and half-asleep by the time Kaiba slid into the bed behind him and pulled him close, nuzzled against the back of his neck, pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"Asleep already, kiddo?"

"Nnn-nnn." Mokuba rolled over and wrapped his arms around his nii-sama's waist. "Did you finish your program, nii-sama?"

"Almost. I'll worry about the rest tomorrow." Program? What program? There was no program. It was only just that Mokuba didn't know that. Love didn't have to mean stressless.

"Okay." Mokuba stretched to put a kiss on Kaiba's mouth. "Sleep tight."

Kaiba accepted the kiss and stroked his brother's hair.

"You too."


End file.
